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"Poetry is the silent voice that is heard everywhere inside of us . . ." - Unknown

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Ode to Books

Speechless you are, making me reach so far.
The sun is dropped out of plain sight, somewhere
There is a fight, but I couldn't care. I hear your every
Word, speechless still.

Covers are my rusted battle shield.
Stentorian voice emerges now, reluctantly you force me, oh -
But how... I need to satisfy these carousel-bound thoughts;
Screaming in mumbles, so clear to the ear, but lost value in the land of the mind.

Your friend looks to me with that one ever so bright eye, twas it to shine in my eye,
Only would cause me to cry. That eye, its judge is a switch, my light -
The torch. Lowering the rusted shield and sparking my torch,
Silent you are still -- yet I hear your voice, your will.

A touch of the smooth feathered once bark, this is how you share how you've
Left your mark. You've aged I say; you've aged! Dare I turn once more your page,
You're the traveler whom craves a companion, a loaner I say.
Fearing that day as I read deeper into your mind, the true owner. Truly fine -- what an author.

Old crinkled companion, allow me to hop aboard this bandwagon -- stealing your thoughts, take Mine away!

You're so mystic this way. Away, Away, Away. . .
So sorry to say, I can't finish you today. . .


Sonnet of Winters’ Snow

In winter, oh the gentle soft white snow
Oh, how I ponder your existence so
Adoringly I stare you down - falling;
You do, down to the white filled grown - watch now.

Ever so, do you … vibrant flow, eck - oh.
Colors of colors: see to the fast wind.
Oh, but no - so long howling loudly.
See to the wind once more, forcing to open --

My door: drifting, swaying, chuckling, hmm.
Adore you, ever so, you shatter glass;
Falling faster, hear laughter soon after.
Oh no, you change; you are so strange - stop it.

And all though you're here, give you time, the same
And still you slip away, gone for the spring.

Freedom's Culture

A drop from a faucet in the summer of sand,
No material possessions in my hand, my hands are my cup.
Trapped in this style of living, my bear's den.
Never before had I seen a roster, let alone a hen!

Four years had past, the breads - oh them I miss,
To have them just touch my lips, merely a kiss;

This is the despair I wear on my clothes, so different; I care.
Heart longing to the home, my land.
Now I eat this finest burrito, from my hand;

Oh man - the taste of liberation! Imagining Fluids

Placed with compassion, by a parents hand.

Guided slowly and swiftly, swaying threw sand.

The division of your vision, is matched by your age.

Your only at the beginning stage, no knowledge of rage.

Instead, you are free above the birds in the air.

Longing so for the touch of sand, drifting to explore the division of sand;

You bring a pile and clutch it flying, grain by grain it is stripped away from your being;

Now this is the sensation of the other side, land quickly to enjoy the Ocean.




Middle-minded School Days

Smearing of colors, more than a collage; this will though, end up in the garage.
In the moment of design; I read the quite sign, the ruckus we preformed before the teacher,
Now every classroom was an instant theater.
Breathing in the dust of the stage, of but merely stained chalk.
Rather learn on the go; so much to know, don't tell me so, show me to the road.
The street is where two opposite paths meet, neither we cross; in fearing sights -- yes, it is a major loss.

Only a sphere, only a ball, only a toy, only a few moments of shared joy...
Lost to the streets. But the good old champion of a tall boy;
Too big he was, with his impact-planned swaying foot,
Now is the time, we wish we'd stay put; feet webbed in the grass.

The sun blocked by clouds, that more than a ball walks;
It does so with a spinning dance, traveling like a man whos' mastered romance, dipping below the shroud.
A vacuum that can pull and push.

It never could, or even should, give us back that joy.
Up it went with a plan, but down it plummeted with a thump.
Echos of horns, the exhale with the force of a deep sea wave.

It bends the body around, in to a ball, you are the new source of joy!
Controlled like tin foil, rather un-royal - but loyal to joy,
Limited not to boy or girl, but thought to imagination.
When the ball fell with a a thump, t'was time to get off the rump.

With a swallow of garden flowers and a swig of cut grass,
We looked to the street, bid thee farewell and simple so;
It was the grade school moment, of 'oh what the hell'
We fare thee well and safe -- rolling to what might end up a cave...
Be carful of the traffic, for they are sign following-literate-knaves.

Poetic Statement by The Author

Whether it be looking at a blank page on a computer screen or outside attached to clipboard, poetry is boundless. Poetry has this characteristic because it is something that is abstract; it can be produced, understood and in some cases, butchered. However, the meaning of poetry cannot even be expressed, yet if done so it would best be done in itself -- through a poem. As it might appear, for me being a developing author and dimmed avid writer is the best poem that could ever be written. Having the ‘know’, that another day will bring an opportunity for a larger than life event, brings lift to creativity. Giving lift to creativity means there is a unique variable that I look for in my writings -- my marketing pieces or even my audiences scrap paper.

The setup for my poetry follows no particular structure, I am not careless but instead constantly consumed in a complex mindset. When I put my angled fingers to the keyboard, I instantly think of the big question that has been decomposing since philosophers explored it; this question is “What am I to this universe and how might my thoughts of today be necessary for the future?” Once more, I am a writer who takes pride in my thought, but also withdraws a sharper eye for imperfection, instead, I look to see why imperfections are necessary.

Poetry in itself is cliché, it has been referred to as many things, but for my poetry I see the embarking of a tale. The positions taken for my poetry were all connected to my strange value for things. It has slowly become aware to me, through the poetry I have written, that I tend to be amazed by the dull-minded understandings for particular things, events, and agreed upon values. Instead of being told what something means, I like to learn the reasoning, but then change it to fit what I would prefer it to actually have implications for; the previous poetry pieces are the silent voices that I keep away from others, not meaning that I hear voices, but in connection to my inspirational quote about poetry, “Poetry is the silent voice that is heard everywhere inside of us.” Simply summed up, my poetry is my quest to hear the everything of others, not just what I have to say about creative literature.

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William Butler Yeats

Sailing to Byzantium

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

A Drinking Song

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

When You are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats is known as being one of the greatest poets in the twentieth century. Yet, in relation to his heritage, he was a truly great Irish poet. His work gives off a sense of traditional poetic writing, it is exquisite, but not very risky. The risk factor is associated not with his play on words, but his fairly lifelong absence from the modernist that were producing newer forms of poetry. During Yeats' later years he created even more poetry that is widely studied and known in society. Instead of being a "one hit wonder" or having only a few magnificent poems -- during one time period of a poetic career -- Yeats continually produced poetry. The poetry is direct, but written in a format that sets up words to link together like colored puzzle pieces; when together the words produce many different ideas and interpretations that are rather abstract.

The poetic pieces seem to support his interest in Irish legends and folk tails. In the poem Sailing to Byzantium it is mot noticeable that his connections to legends is utilized. The following "And therefore I have sailed the seas and come. To the holy city of Byzantium." Sailing the seas is a way to express Yeats' imagination; the take on the piece that is from another story. Sailing the seas is the image of a hero, an explorer, and the beginning of a hero's journey. The detail is direct and traditional, just like Yeats' time period.